Thirst That Is Yet To Come
by FourSilverArrows
Summary: How Chris and Buck lost touch after the fire.  Preshow.


Universe: OW  
Characters: Chris and Buck

Disclaimer: I don't own, making no money.  
Challenge: Angels and Demons for Feb. 07. Well, it's not really in keeping with the challenge, but I can claim it as inspiration.  
Comments: This is set before the Pilot.

Warnings: Language  
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He used to know the day and the place. Well, at least the month.

And he used to not have this constant burning in the back of his throat from smokin' and drinkin'. Hell, he only used to drink the hard stuff when Buck could convince him to stay in town an extra hour instead of hitting the general store for his wife's canning supplies.

Old and new instincts flared when there was a rustling in the dark and dank room. His mind told him of remembered fear and struggle, but his body was still aching and his reactions were slow. Damn, he was getting old for these all night pulls, but damn if he would stop any time soon.

"Sarah?" As soon as he said it, he regretted it. She wasn't there any more. He had no right to expect an answer. Where the hell was his last bottle? There had to be at least a few drinks left.

"Chris? We gotta talk." Buck. When had he showed up? Maybe he could help look for the bottle.

Someone had told him in the first saloon he crashed into after Sarah and Adam . . . at the beginning of this nightmare and his season of never ending black . . . for him to take a drink for the thirst that was yet to come.

And damn if he hadn't drank that man under the table that night.

Now was some time, he wasn't sure how long, later. Maybe it was weeks, maybe months. Buck was still trying to convince him that drinking was not a good idea. Hearing a man like Buck trying to 'convince' him while in the middle of a four-day binge hangover headache wasn't pleasant.

"Is it Monday?" It was a stab in the dark. But, it could be Monday. He was sure he heard bells yesterday. Loud and persistent bells.

"Nah, Chris, it's Wednesday. How the hell ya keep living this way is a miracle. That good time gal and her pimp almost had yer throat cut and yer stuff sold before I found ya."

A light touch of a damp rag forced Chris to remember the sting of a straight razor across his Adam's apple. He groaned.

"Ya gotta stop this," Buck's hallow voice whispered. "The war didn't take ya, three stampedes didn't take ya. Hell, that gunman in Chatto didn't take ya. Don't—don't let this take ya, Chris. She wouldn't want it this way."

"To hell with you, Buck." The words caused no shame and no remorse, just a dull throb of pain under his heart and behind his right eye. "Don't preach to me and don't you dare mention her." His voice was broken glass and his dry eyes were like hot gun barrels.

He looked like a fallen man, a broken man who refused to heal.

Buck heaved a sigh. "I don't wanna leave ya, Chris, but I don't know how long I can take watchin' ya kill yerself like this." There was pain. They both knew this pain and it was bad.

Chris knew this had been coming. Like storm clouds in the distance that suddenly are overhead and spewing lighting and hard winds. Hell, he'd almost planned it this way.

"Go." This time his voice was steady and clear as he pinned his reddened eyes to Buck's outline in the room. "Leave. Now."

Go like Sarah, and Adam, and Hank. Leave me alone.

Chris almost felt satisfaction when Buck winced away. "Chris—"

"Go!" He let more of his hellish hangover into his expression and voice. That part of him that was a nasty, drunken bastard. The newborn killer that didn't stay in one place fore more than the time it took to get kicked out of a bad saloon and run out of town by the local law.

"Yer not strong enough, Chris. They almost killed ya and your last three bottles have left you weak as a baby."

Chris snorted and rubbed his hands over his greasy blond hair and his forming beard. He pushed up from the bed, shaking off Buck's hand. "I'm fine."

"Ya look fine," muttered Buck.

The gunfighter looked at his friend. He saw the concern in the expressive eyes and the hard set of the mouth despite the covering moustache. "Buck, get out of here."

Buck opened his mouth, but shut it when Chris rummaged around on the floor and finally pulled up a bottle with several inches of brown liquid at the bottom. Buck shook his head and let his shoulders drop.

"Yer like a brother, Chris. Sarah was like a sister. And God knows I loved Adam almost like my own."

Chris had never hurt Buck on purpose before, but they both weren't shocked when the gunfighter slung the bottle on the bed and grabbed his gun. Even still half-drunk and suffering from a hangover, Chris was still fast and smooth as clockwork.

And his hand was steady as a rock.

"Don't mention her again, Buck. Don't."

Buck didn't move, but he wasn't really afraid. He was more angry than anything, but he didn't make any movement to take the gun. Friend or no friend, he'd be dead not long after he twitched.

"Fine. Fine, Chris. I'll leave. Like everybody else, right? Let you wallow in the pain and the anger until there's nothing left but a mean killer that gets buried where he falls in some dip-in-the-ground-town when he meets a faster killer." When there was no response, Buck turned away. "If you ever need me, pard, let me know. I hope for both of us it's sooner than later."

Buck was out of his thoughts even as his friend shut the door on the rundown room. Chris put down his gun and picked up the abandoned bottle.

He didn't even bother with the cloudy glass that lay on the floor. He swigged and gasped in appreciation for the bad liquor.

This drink wasn't for now. Wasn't for the pain of forcing his last friend away, or for losing his family.

It was for the thirst that was yet to come.

END

Taken from the Irish Proverb:

"Take the drink for the thirst that is yet to come."


End file.
